


I touch you knowing we weren’t born tomorrow

by mazily



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: Bernie's waiting for her when she trudges out into the baggage claim area.





	I touch you knowing we weren’t born tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> For the tumblr touch prompt meme - massages for Berena :D
> 
> Title from Adrienne Rich.

She falls asleep almost immediately: endless hours of delays and the wine she'd quaffed to fill them, the rumbling of the engines oddly soothing beneath the Mozart she's been listening to this leg of her trip. Misses what passes for a meal service, the drinks cart, all of it--her poor seatmate likely bearing the brunt of her hay fever snoring.

They land, and she snort-startles awake when her seatmate leans forward to pull her bag from beneath the seat in front of her. Accidentally elbows Serena in the process. She apologizes, and they exchange the necessary pleasantries.

Serena wipes her face, tries to force the sleep from her eyes. Her face probably looks a fright: rings around her eyes, fatigue and smudged mascara and too much wine, creases of makeup lining her face. She yawns. Tilts her head to either side to feel her neck crack. Her entire body aches: toes to head--that last glass and the dry air of the plane, sleeping in an unnatural position--and back to front. There's finally movement at the front, and she pushes her way into the aisle with everyone else.

*

Bernie's waiting for her when she trudges out into the baggage claim area. They greet each other awkwardly: a mismatched hug, Serena's bag banging into Bernie's hip, a kiss that is more air than lips.

"Hello, you," Bernie says.

Serena nuzzles Bernie's nose with her own. Feels soppy all over, yawning and happy and home right here in the bustle and noise of the airport. "Missed you," she says. Finally presses her mouth cleanly on Bernie's, pushes into the kiss with everything she has.

Even when they separate, end the kiss, Serena leans into Bernie. Foreheads still touching. "Well, ding dong," Bernie says, giggling before she even finishes speaking. Serena feels the laughter bubbling up from the deep. Laughs harder than she has in what feels like a lifetime.

She spots her seatmate looking at her from across the room. Laughs harder, more hysterically. Wraps her arm around one of Bernie's, shakes her head, says, "Right, let's go home."

"No checked luggage?" Bernie asks.

"No checked luggage," Serena affirms. Bernie looks at her askance, like she isn't sure whether or not she ought to worry. "I just shipped everything I couldn't chuck in my carryon. Knew I wouldn't want to deal with it at the end of a full day of travel."

"Home it is, then," Bernie says. She presses closer to Serena, and Serena answers by pressing even closer still. They walk out touching everywhere they possibly can.

*

Serena drops her bag. Back shoved against Bernie's car, Bernie's mouth insistent and hot against her own. They kiss for what feels like an eternity. Like a moment. Serena pulling Bernie against her, grabbing at her hair, shoulders, back, arse: she can't touch enough of Bernie. Can't stop herself pushing and grabbing and biting at Bernie's lower lip. Kissing open mouthed across Bernie's cheek and nosing the space behind her ear.

Her neck is stiff. Her shoulders burn. She ignores the pain, lets Bernie manhandle her against the car door; she'd let Bernie do anything to her, just know, let her push them both into the nonexistent back seat and sit down on Serena's face.

A horn beeps, followed by rude shouting. Bernie stumbles over Serena's bag, and Serena reaches out to catch her. Her shoulder cracks embarrassingly loudly, but they both manage to stay upright.

Bernie looks worried. Palms on either side of Serena's face, she makes determined eye contact. Asks, "You all right?"

Serena shrugs. Regrets the movement. "Fell asleep on the plane," she admits. "Did a number on my neck and shoulders."

Bernie grins, feral, and Serena's entire face goes hot. "Well, well, Ms. Campbell," Bernie says, "I reckon it's my turn to give you a massage. Purely medicinal, of course. We can't have our new CEO reporting for her first day of work with a dodgy neck, might not reflect well on-"

Serena kisses Bernie to shut her up: hard and fast enough to startle. Breaks some sort of land-speed record getting into the passenger seat. Bernie tosses her bag in the boot with practiced ease. Rather melts into her own seat--Serena turns away; shifts her legs, thighs pressing together--and starts the engine.

*

Bernie's flat--theirs now, for the foreseeable future, until Serena finds somewhere new; her old house stands empty and on the market, far too full of ghosts for her to sleep through the night--is small but tidy. Even the boxes Serena preferred not go into storage are stacked neatly. Serena's heart lurches. She wants to apologize, knows she promised not to the last time they spoke over Skype, wants to tell Bernie she's brilliant and wonderful and loved.

"Hired a cleaner, did you?" she says, instead.

Bernie laughs: honks, rather, a sound Serena has sorely missed. "Ex-military, more like," she says. "The evidence of my desk to the contrary, I can keep my bunk tidy when I need to."

"Thank you," Serena says, "For everything." She presses herself against Bernie's back, wraps her arms around her waist. Rests her head between Bernie's shoulderblades and breathes in the scent of her: soap and sweat and the cigarettes they've both sworn up and down to quit again now Serena's back.

Bernie grunts, or maybe sighs. Makes an in between sound meant to express  _ no problem  _ and  _ I didn't do anything  _ and  _ I'm not the complete mess you think I am  _ and  _ you're welcome _ . 

Serena thinks she might fall asleep where she stands. Pressed against Bernie, in the liminal space between her living area and the kitchenette. She closes her eyes, rests her forehead against the back of Bernie's neck. Yawns and tries to ignore the screaming of her shoulders. 

"Right," Bernie says, brisk and no nonsense: her work voice. "None of that, Campbell." She turns in Serena's arms, presses a quick kiss to her nose. Her cheek. Her mouth. Starts walking them both toward the bedroom, gradually longer kisses between each awkward step. Once they're through the door, she pushes Serena toward the bed and instructs her to strip off. "I believe I promised you a massage," she says, waggling her eyebrows and leering until Serena laughs. Begins to undress.

"Where do you want me then?" Serena asks. 

Bernie just watches. Eyes going dark. Serena's grateful for the front clasp on her bra, for the way Bernie looks at her as she unclasps it. Drops the bra to the floor and stands, naked and anticipatory, in front of the bed.  

Serena gestures behind her. "Bed alright, or would you prefer-"

"Bed," Bernie says. "On your front."

*

It hurts. Bernie's hands on her bare skin for the first time in ages, and Serena wants to cry at the pain: it's the good kind, the necessary kind, but she's tired and she doesn't want to cry which of course means her eyes well up with tears. She sniffs--

"Oh, fuck," Bernie says, pulling back, "I'm so-"

"I'm not made of glass," Serena snaps. 

Bernie sits fully up. Hands in front of her, body stiff and suddenly still.

Serena rolls onto her back. Props herself up on her elbows. "Right, poor choice of words." She pulls herself fully up into a seated position. Looks Bernie in the eye. Tries to project something of the comfort and security she feels being here with Bernie, in the bed they'll be sharing for the foreseeable future. "I am fine, though," she says. "Some days are better than others, always have been, but I'm healthy and hale and back to me."

Bernie nods. Takes Serena's hands between her own, rubs her thumb along Serena's knuckles. Tangles their fingers together. "Good," she says. "I'm. That's good."

"I rather think so," Serena says. 

"Good," Bernie repeats. She still looks a bit shaken. Eyes coltish and wary, but Serena can see the love there now she remembers how to recognize it again. She can't stop herself, pulls Bernie's hands to her mouth to kiss her fingers, knuckles, the back of each hand in turn. 

"I think I'll book an appointment with a professional in the morning," she says. Bernie's head jerks up. "It's not so bad I can't move, and any massage worth the name's going to hurt a fair bit I fear. I'd rather not-"

"No," Bernie says. Her fingers tighten around Serena's. Her eyes look damp. "I can do this." 

"Of course you can," Serena says. She fully believes it: Bernie will do anything for someone she loves, even if it ends up smashing her to bits in the process. Doesn't mean Serena wants her to. Doesn't mean Serena thinks she should. She pulls her right hand away from Bernie's, reaches up to comb back the damp hair falling over her eyes. Busses her on the forehead. "But I'm going to insist. I'd much rather keep my pleasure and pain separate for the evening." 

Serena quirks an eyebrow. Tries for--and thinks she succeeds, if Bernie's flush is any indication--flirtatious. Sexy. She moves a hand to the top button on Bernie's shirt and flicks it open. Follows the line of buttons all the way down, blushes herself as Bernie's eyes keep drifting down to her breasts, as Bernie's breathing shallows out. Serena's hands shake at the top of Bernie's jeans: she wants so much, too much, all at once. "Right," she says, "Now strip off the rest of that lot for me, Major, and-"

Bernie leans forward. Kisses Serena, kisses her like she's scared Serena's going to do another runner--not that Serena can blame her; she knows the feeling well enough from the other side, after all, has kissed Bernie like this more times than she'd care to admit--and Serena opens her mouth. Kisses back just as desperately. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It’ll likely take me approximately ten years to write, but I am always open to more prompts ([touch](https://ylizam.tumblr.com/post/160980395066/touch-prompts) or [otherwise).](https://ylizam.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
